Nothing More
by SnowyWolff
Summary: Prussia and Romano have a midnight chat about their not-relationship.


It was supposed to be just sex. It _had_ been just sex since the beginning of the nineteenth century, since Romano had stalked into Prussia's tent and had bent him over the table to screw the living daylights out of him one late, frustrating night.

Yet now, twenty years and a fully unified Italy and Germany later, Romano is rummaging around in his kitchen in Potsdam at 3 am in the godforsaken morning, wearing one of Prussia's sweaters and not much of anything else, looking for all the world just like he belongs right there.

Prussia watches him, feels his heart skip a beat, then worries about the implications that holds. He clears his throat and pushes away from the doorway, wondering whether he should feel glad or scared when all Romano does is pause, the tea tin hovering above the counter top before he puts it down definitively.

"Did I wake you?" he asks, voice a little hollow. Of sleep or thoughtfulness, Prussia couldn't tell.

"No." But Romano knows that Prussia sleeps lightly, and if he had planned to boil water, he had meant to wake him. "What woke you?"

"I was never asleep." He fills the kettle, glances back toward Prussia for the first time. His eyes are hollow too, so he has definitely been thinking, most likely too much. "Tea?"

Prussia sighs and waves his hand tiredly. "Sure, whatever."

He leans against the counter, following Romano's movements in an effort to figure out this cryptic mood of his. He doesn't seem particularly upset, working with a careless precision only possible when he has a clear head. Yet, he isn't calm either, and Prussia would have called him jittery if he hadn't known any better, but he does, now, and the gentle tap-tap of Romano's nails against the marble counter is nothing but a habit born from impatience. All Prussia can figure out is that he's been thinking, which could be about any and all things, though it seems strangely melancholic.

It's more than a little worrisome.

When Romano presses the warm mug into his hands, eyes lingering on the brush of their fingers, Prussia knows he isn't the only one wondering when the lines between just sex and genuine feelings had blurred.

"Romano," he starts, doesn't actually know where to take it and lowers his eyes when Romano returns to the other side of the kitchen, not even five steps away yet appearing like the physical distance from Potsdam to Syracuse. He doesn't think there's an easy way around this conversation, long overdue and simmering in the frigid night air. So, he blurts, "What are we?"

Romano snorts. "How serious of an answer do you want?" It's teasing, but the hint of hesitation is there.

"I want to know where we stand," Prussia says. "You know as well as I that we long since crossed the line."

"I know." Romano sighs, eyes sliding away to where his hand rests against the counter. "And I don't."

"But you've been thinking about it?"

Romano counters, though with no malice. It's sober and honest. "Have you?"

Prussia doubts he has as much as Romano. For all the world makes him out to be less than he is, he's clever and mindful, with a tendency to over think and a habit to speak his mind only when there is no way to lie his way out.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"I don't know either."

Romano hums, sips his tea distractedly.

The silence unnerves Prussia, so he asks, "Are we something?"

"Do you want to be?"

"Can you stop answering my questions with questions."

Romano frowns and places his mug on the counter, leaning back on his hands. "I mean, we are something. Nations, friends, fuck buddies. Whether we're _something_ …" He shrugs.

That was an honest answer at least.

Prussia rubs his cheek, hating the flush he can feel crawl up his neck. Fuck buddies is what they were supposed to be, all right. But—

"You don't lose sleep over being fuck buddies."

"I think it's part of the definition of fucking."

Honesty. "Romano."

"God, you're no fun tonight, are you?" Romano crosses the space between them like it's nothing and touches Prussia's cheek. "Do we have to define everything all the time?"

Prussia's breath stutters as Romano brushes his thumb over his cheekbone, closes his eyes as Romano's other hand cups his other cheek and brings his head down. Brushing his lips against the skin just on the right above Prussia's, he mutters, "I don't care what we are as long as I can continue doing this."

They kiss, and it's tired and slow and short, but that's mostly Prussia's fault, much more interested in finding answers than ponder over what evasive manoeuvres Romano attempts to try and end the conversation.

His hands rest on Romano's hips and it's very tempting to move lower onto bare skin and take advantage of the situation because it's certainly what Romano is interested in, but Prussia reaches up instead, taking Romano's wrists in his hands and breaking the kiss slowly. He meets those unwavering golden eyes, so dark and thoughtful and wonderful in the moonlit kitchen, and takes Romano's limp fingers in his own.

"I'd like to be," Prussia says, knowing it would otherwise never be spoken of again. "More, that is, than fuck buddies."

Romano is very still, eyes unfocused on Prussia's jaw. When he speaks, it's even quieter, a murmur perhaps not meant to be heard. "People will talk."

Prussia squeezes Romano's fingers. "I thought you didn't care what others said." It's partially a tease, partially he knows exactly what Romano is referring to.

"I do care when—" he hesitates, frowns, sighs and presses his forehead against Prussia's shoulder. "I care when it's about people _I_ care about."

Prussia wheedles one hand from Romano and brushes it through his hair, settling at the back of his neck. It's warm and probably very red and Prussia knows he is too. "No one has to know."

Romano snorts. "What's the use of this then?"

"Ease of my conscious."

A soft laugh, followed by an equally soft kiss against Prussia's throat. Romano's hand is clinging to the fabric of Prussia's shirt.

"Ah, careful now. You might say something sappy soon."

"You've already paved the way." Prussia grins when Romano tilts his head back to press a kiss to his jaw, and when Prussia angles his head down, to his cheek and his mouth.

"I wouldn't mind," Romano mutters in the space between their lips, "to be more. I don't normally spend my nights making tea and having dumb conversations about where I stand with someone in a relationship after all."

"You're so romantic, Romano."

"Shut up already."

More kisses, each a little longer, a little more heady, until Prussia has to grip the counter behind him, one hand still at the back of Romano's neck, while the Italian has his hands around his back, a leg shoved between Prussia's.

And it would have been a really exciting prospect if it wasn't 3.30 in the morning. Prussia mutters as much as he drops his head to Romano's shoulder and Romano runs his fingers through his hair, laughing softly.

They shuffle to bed and Prussia doesn't hesitate for once as he lowers himself on top of Romano, sighing in content as Romano wriggles until he's comfortable.

It doesn't take long for Romano to fall asleep then, and Prussia listens to the quiet _ba-thump_ of Romano's heart, his easy breathing, and curls his fingers into the fabric of Romano's sweater.

They might not have said _I love you_ , a deference of pride neither is quite ready for yet, and they should probably talk more when it isn't close to 4 in the morning, but for now Prussia is content.

* * *

 **You know you take fic writing and historical research too far when you're suddenly miles deep in the history of tea while it has no relevance to the story whatsoever but you got there after searching for tea kettles of the 1800s.**


End file.
